


Cocoon

by sassbandit



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Domesticity, Fluff, Found Family, Gardens & Gardening, Genderqueer Character, Knitting, M/M, No Hurt all Comfort, Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 09:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14352951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassbandit/pseuds/sassbandit
Summary: The sweater itself was like a cocoon, pale flecked wool twisted in textured cables, huge and enveloping. Instead of fitted sleeves it had... Bucky wasn't sure what to even call them, wide drapey folds of fabric with cuffs at the ends. He could put his hands through them so they were outside where he could use them, or he could pull them inside like he has no hands at all. If he wanted, he could pull his head through the collar and his feet up through the hem and tuck himself right into the sweater like a tortoise in its shell.





	Cocoon

**Author's Note:**

> I had a shitty day and all I wanted to do was write quietly genderqueer Bucky who is like stock photography for a "slow living" magazine.

Just before dawn Bucky pulls his boots on and slips out the back door of his house. He lets the screen door swing shut and pauses a moment before leaving it unlocked behind him.

The trail starts at the end of his road, winding past a little-used picnic ground and through light woodland to the top of the hill. There's a lookout with a flat stone where people sit sometimes. Bucky sits on it, crossing his legs under him, and waits.

If he has to be awake at this hour (and who is he to argue with his brain, which seems to have firm ideas on the matter) then it's better to be out here than lying in bed staring at the ceiling. Here, at least, the air is fresh and clear. The trees along the lake shore are outlined in stark silhouette against the sunrise.

He carried an apple with him. When the sun is fully up he bites into it, chewing slowly to savor its tart crispness. Only a few more weeks of apples like these, straight from the tree. One of these days he should look at the cookbook he picked up at the thrift store, the one with the canning recipes. Perhaps he could put some away before the winter.

He hears footsteps on the path. He sits calmly, waiting, until the footsteps are at the edge of the clearing then turns around slowly, a casual smile ready.

It's just Judy from down the road, long silver hair and a colorful shawl draped around her shoulders. She nods a greeting and waits a moment at the end of the rock. Bucky shuffles across, making space for her. 

Judy sits down, facing out across the lake same as Bucky, her legs out straight in front of her. Her feet are veiny and wrinkled in her Birkenstocks. She must be about seventy years old, Bucky thinks, feeling old and young all at once.

A few cars pass by on the lakeside road and a boat pulls out from one of the weathered wooden docks. The sun is up high enough to take the chill off the air. There are things Bucky ought to be doing. He stands up. Judy starts to rise, too, and Bucky offers her his right hand.

"New sweater?" she asks. He nods; he found it last week. 

They walk down the trail together, Bucky taking point. They don't talk until they got to the road. "D'you want some eggs?" Judy asks before they turn to go in opposite directions.

"Thanks," Bucky says. "I'll come by later."

* * *

The cooler weather is what drove Bucky into the thrift store. Even he could recognize that his hoodies were getting tattered beyond repair.

He walked between the racks of garments, running his hands along them, until one caught his attention. The texture of it rang a faint memory from before the war and when he took it from its coat hanger and held it up against his body, there was a scent that reminded him of... not his mother, not Steve's mother, just... mothers in general. A smell of kitchens and a faint perfume, maybe soap, maybe talcum powder or something like that. Comforting.

The sweater itself was like a cocoon, pale flecked wool twisted in textured cables, huge and enveloping. Instead of fitted sleeves it had... Bucky wasn't sure what to even call them, wide drapey folds of fabric with cuffs at the ends. He could put his hands through them so they were outside where he could use them, or he could pull them inside like he has no hands at all. If he wanted, he could pull his head through the collar and his feet up through the hem and tuck himself right into the sweater like a tortoise in its shell.

He wears the sweater at night when the temperature drops and in the morning before it rises again. He wears it outside to fetch wood for the fire, to rake leaves, or to check on his squash to see if they're ready for picking yet. He's not sure when that will be but it seems like he ought to wait as long as he can. 

He wears the sweater with leggings, with bare feet, with his combat boots. He wears it with a thin tank top underneath, or with a warm plaid shirt. He thinks about wearing it into town, into the grocery store, the hardware store. He thinks about wearing it with his old jeans, and thinks about getting new jeans.

He wears the sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, as he picks herbs from his garden and walks over to Judy's place. He goes round the back and when he can't see her at first he calls out, "Hello?"

"In here," she shouts from the garden shed. She's stacking empty plant pots, arranging them by size under the counter. A couple of her chickens are pecking around near her feet.

"Thanks, sweetheart," she says, taking the bunches of herbs as he offers them. "You want some tea? I'm just about to have some myself."

They walk up through the garden, both ignoring the sage and the mint and the verbena that were parents to his own plants a year or two before.

"When do you pick squash?" Bucky asks, sipping on his tea. Verbena. A recycled carton of a dozen eggs sits beside him.

"Before the frost," Judy says. "Not for a couple of weeks yet. At least..." She shakes her head. "God knows, these days."

* * *

Bucky does tai chi in the flat grassy clearing behind his house. The day of the first frost, the grass crunches underfoot and shows a trail of footprints back to the porch. He leaves a warm, melted patch where he steps, which disappears in the warmth of the day.

Inside, he rubs his feet with a towel and pulls on warm socks. He makes oatmeal for breakfast. After, he moves the living room furniture around to make room to do his tai chi indoors.

* * *

Judy comes by when he's canning, his kitchen all steamed up and smelling of cinnamon and nutmeg. 

"You wanna get the Ball book," she says when she sees his thrift store find. "It's got all the modern safety instructions." She writes the name down for him. 

"When did you last charge your phone?" she asks, once he's put the last batch of jars in the canner and set the timer. Bucky looks around and realizes he doesn't know where his phone even is. He shrugs. "Thought so," she says. "Steve called me. Said you weren't answering. He's fine," she adds. "Just asked you to call him."

The phone's under his bed and so is his laptop. He plugs them both in and looks up the Ball book, adding it to his cart, then finds himself browsing. He buys another two cookbooks, pajamas, more socks, lip balm, jeans, a couple of thermal tops, a sample pack of spice blends, a blender, a meditation DVD and a messenger bag before he manages to close the window and remind himself why he tries not to go online.

He calls Steve early in the evening, when he's more likely to be free. Steve picks up on the third ring and greets him enthusiastically. "How's life?" he asks.

"Good. I've been canning things. Apples."

"I was thinking of coming for a visit," Steve says, his voice turning up at the end like he's not sure.

"Yes," Bucky says. "When?"

"Maybe next week. Would you... would you mind if Sam and Nat come? They'd like to see you."

Bucky thinks. Apples, squash, kale still green in the vegetable garden, garlic in a string hanging on the wall, dried beans in their jars. He'll go into town, visit the butcher. They have a butcher, a real one, it's one of the things he likes. 

"Sure," he says. "Any time. Just let me know."

* * *

He showers before they arrive. Shaves his face perfectly smooth, dries his hair and puts it up in a bun. He wears his cocoon sweater with his new jeans skimming darkly over his thighs and pooling a little around his ankles. His socks are red, made from alpaca wool. He's seen them, alpacas, on one of the farms nearby and they're ridiculous. It makes him like the socks even more.

Steve's bike pulls in just a moment before Natasha's car. Bucky meets Steve at the door, kisses him quickly on the mouth. Sam and Nat get hugs. 

"Something smells good," Sam says, stepping inside. 

They eat in the kitchen, everyone sprawling around the table, beer bottles and dirty plates piling up as they talk. Casserole and roasted vegetables and braised greens and pie. He didn't used to cook like this, but he's learned. It's good to have an excuse, more mouths to feed. They're happy, full. Steve took third helpings of pie and Sam and Nat both took seconds. 

They try not to talk too much about work, about people Bucky doesn't know and things he doesn't want to hear about. Instead they talk about the towns up here, which ones are full of rednecks, which ones are full of artists. They talk about the neighbors, about the people in town, about the butcher and the hardware store and the thrift store and the bookstore that's also a gift shop and the other gift shop that's also a café. They talk about the tourist season and how it's not so bad here. Bucky shows them the bowls that Judy made, tells them about the gallery that sells her pottery. Nobody asks if he misses the city. He doesn't miss the city _now_ and he only remembers the city _then_ in scraps and fragments. Anyway, he has internet shopping.

Sam insists on doing the dishes because Bucky cooked, and because Sam's momma raised him right. Natasha dries. Steve reaches his hand across the table to Bucky and says, "You're looking well."

Bucky takes his hand and squeezes it. "Fresh air," he says. "Wholesome living. Who knew?" Steve laughs. "You want to stay over?" Bucky asks, running the pad of his thumb across Steve's wrist.

"That'd be nice," Steve says.

When the others are gone, their tail lights glowing red up the driveway, Bucky and Steve go into the living room and sit on the floor in front of the fire, prodding at it with the poker and arguing half-heartedly over how best to place the logs. 

As if Steve would know. He just likes poking at it. It's a novelty for him, nostalgia maybe. Bucky lets him, and lies down across the rug with his head in Steve's lap.

"I like the sweater," Steve says, tracing the twining cables across Bucky's shoulder.

"It's a cocoon," Bucky says and pulls his hands inside to demonstrate. His arms are bare and smooth inside his shell, skin and metal, body temperature.

Steve traces patterns in the wool, skims his fingertips under the collar to massage Bucky's neck, tucks errant strands of hair back behind his ear. Bucky rubs his cheek on Steve's thigh, watches the coals glow and dim.

He's almost asleep when Steve prods him in the side and says, "Bed." 

Steve strips down to his shorts and his undershirt. Bucky peels his jeans off and puts on his new pajamas. They're dark grey with white snowflakes, which he finds darkly amusing. If the Winter Soldier had fluffy pajamas these are definitely the ones he would have had. He leaves his tank top on, smooth black fabric clinging to his chest and stomach. He likes the way the straps are set wide, how they frame his collarbones.

Steve likes it too. He presses his lips there, and to the hollow of Bucky's throat, and to the edge of his jaw where the stubble is just starting to roughen his skin. 

"Get under the covers," Bucky says. The air's cold in the bedroom and he hasn't filled a hot water bottle. He won't need one with Steve there.

* * *

Steve leaves with three jars of pie apples in the bag strapped to the back of his bike and a dozen pears from Judy's tree. He hugs Bucky for a long time then keeps holding on to his hands for even longer before he lets go. He'll be back around Christmas.

Bucky cleans up, brings in more wood, rakes more leaves, then looks at his living room and thinks it looks too empty to sit in. He walks over to Judy's instead.

She's winding wool, long earth-colored skeins of it looped around a wooden contraption that spins like a carousel. She twists the yarn onto a sturdy carved stick, criss-crossing over and over to form a perfect ball. He's mesmerized, watching her hands.

"What are you making?" he asks.

"A sweater," she says. "Same as every winter."

Bucky looks at the sweater she's wearing, dark blue with deep twisted vines and leaves weaving across its surface, then he looks down at his own pale cocoon.

"I wear them for a few years then pass them on," she says. "That one suits you."


End file.
